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Although a sizzling jet of anticipation zig-zagged up his spine along with pride and a surreal sensation of unreality, their long-time vision of escaping Frank’s hold would come to life in twenty minutes.
Vegas in all its shimmering glory.
The sleek space would open its doors to a guest list of Hollywood stars looking to be seen, politicians wanting everyone to see how hip they were, and a horde of A-listers stretching from Manhattan to LA.
Samson took one last look, then he and Jax headed for the door. They hit the stairs leading to the main bar, where the waitstaff stood eager to start the night. All of them were happy to line their pockets with huge tips at what social media now called—
Vegas’s hottest, most-anticipated club opening of the year.
He and Nick were a long way from the bad old days in Brooklyn, living hand to mouth, pulling any scam to get by while making collections for Frank Barnett. The neighborhood wise-guy saw potential in them and set them up at the Oasis, a dive bar in Bensonhurst. They revamped the place, showed a profit in the first six months, and the rest, as they say, was history.
All eyes were glued to Samson as he crossed the LED-lit dance floor, his Ferragamo’s echoing in the cavernous club. He looked over the eager staff and recited the words he’d rehearsed in his head earlier.
“Tonight, we are selling a dream. Everybody needs to be on point. Make sure you know what the customer wants before they do. You’re not selling booze; you’re selling a promise of the best night they’ve ever had in their whole fuckin’ lives.”
Nervous giggles broke out from the females and a few knowing smirks from the males.
“If they’re spending money, you keep them engaged and interested,” Samson continued. “If they're only taking up space, move them out, but you do it with a smile like you hate to see them go. It’s all about the show, ladies and gentlemen, and tonight we’re bringing NYC to Sin City.” Samson paused. “Now, are we ready to make this happen?”
The men and women cheered, excitement in their eyes. Hopefully, they’d be able to carry that level of enthusiasm through a night of grabby drunks, both male and female, obnoxious requests from privileged assholes with huge attitudes, plus the regular fuckers who didn’t know any better. Alcohol never improved anyone’s personality.
Dealing with the public always presented a challenge—the entitled elite added a whole other level—but the high of throwing the best party in town ran through Samson’s blood. He craved it with the same need he felt while throwing fists in the cage. It kept him alive, focused, and on the straight and narrow, which translated to no more white powder up his nose.
“Showtime,” the doorman called out.
“Let’s show these fuckers the best time of their life.” Samson stepped off and headed for the stairs leading to the second-floor VIP space to observe the flow from above and greet the VIPs when they arrived. He undid another button on his five-hundred-dollar designer shirt. The damn thing was too fuckin’ tight. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to throw a fist tonight because the thin material would shred like the Hulk on a bad day. Apparently, Tom Ford wasn’t interested in comfort, and Ferragamo didn’t give a shit if Samson’s size fourteens were screaming in pain either.
His phone vibrated, and he fished it out of his pants pocket, glanced at the caller ID, smirked, then swiped at the screen. “I figured you’d be calling.”
“How’s it goin’?” Nick rasped through the phone.
Samson headed for an alcove at the side of the room, away from the pounding music. “So far, so good.” Samson’s life kept him from being too optimistic.
“You look over the VIP list?” Nick asked.
“Yup. Everyone present and accounted for.” He listed a few popular names. “The VIP is sold out. Fuckin’ unbelievable.”
“You’ll need to make an appearance at some of those tables.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Samson mumbled. Fuckin’ small talk. He hated it. “Already on it. Of course, nobody throws bullshit better than you.”
“It’s a gift.” Nick huffed out a laugh. “Just make sure they all feel welcomed like they’re your new best friends.”
“I got enough friends.” Samson imagined him shaking his head on the other end of the phone.
“Don’t be a prick. No matter how famous or how much money they have, these people love to say they know the owner, and your stopping by their table ensures a repeat visit. Crazy shit, but it works every time.”
“After all the years in this business, it still amazes me people will shell out five hundred or more for a bottle of booze they could buy for fifty bucks at the corner liquor store.”
“That’s the magic making all this possible, partner.”
“Some partner. You leave me out here in the desert to twist.”
“I know you’d rather be throwing your fists in the warehouse, but you got Jax.”
Samson glanced over at Jax leaning against the far wall surveying the action and missing nothing in his usual way. The man could spot trouble before it happened, making him invaluable.
“I want you to concentrate on the group from TMZ. We need them to be happy and talk about their great time on network TV. There’s also an up-and-coming event planner from LA celebrating a bachelorette. When you stop by her table, talk her up. I wouldn’t mind doing business with her in the future. She’s new enough, and we might be able to swing a deal with her bringing events to the club.”
